If You Ever Come Back
by dhbPATHWAY1997
Summary: One-shot songfic of The Script's "If You Ever Come Back" Arthur left Alfred, unsure of where his life was going and if he was making the right decisions. A heartbroken Alfred is trying to pretend that things never changed and everything is okay, still hoping Arthur will come back someday. And he's trying to make it easy for him when he does. Like he never left.


_If You Ever Come Back_

* * *

My eyes burned from lack of sleep. Or…maybe I had slept and I just couldn't remember. I wasn't sure. Anyway, I was absolutely exhausted. As far as I was concerned, I hadn't slept in ten days. Ten long, miserable days.

Only adding to the misery of it all was the way that nothing on the outside had changed – it was just the way he'd left it, except for the majority of his belongings, which he'd taken with him. _His_ sweater, forgotten in his rush to pack up, was still in the third drawer. The scent of _his_ last failed attempt at cooking dinner still lingered in the curtains and dishtowels in the kitchen. And, it was probably my imagination, but when I felt like maybe I could fall asleep, and I couldn't help but fall down onto the bed desperately, _his_ side of the bed still felt almost warm.

But he was gone. Arthur had panicked, like I figured he would one day. He had that thought again, that he didn't know who he was, or what he was doing with his life. He wondered if he'd made the right choices and was _still_ making the right choices, and the only half-assed answer he could give himself was _I don't know._

At first, Arthur had gone home. He took a bus to his childhood home in suburban London, considerably near our apartment. But if I knew him as well as I thought I did – which I did – he'd be at a train station now. The distance wouldn't be great enough yet.

But as I _did_ know Arthur so well, there was a possibility that even as he stood on the platform with his slightly worn suitcase, among the other passengers, boarding and rushing and pulling around luggage, he just couldn't make himself get on the train. He might not be able to take those steps forward and go. Because even if Arthur was impulsive at all the wrong times, too nervous for his own good and worried _way_ too much, there were some things I knew he just couldn't leave behind. I hoped I was one of them.

I wondered if Arthur had done that thing. The thing he did when he got all sad and regretful. He'd just sit down somewhere and cover his face. He always did it so that no one would be able to see his expression, or his tears, if he was crying. But what he didn't know was that it didn't help much. Usually, almost _anyone_ could see right through that, and if they cared enough, they'd ask to make sure he was all right. Which, of course, he never was. He was human. He made mistakes. And he felt pain.

The beep of the microwave jolted me out of my blank state and I looked around the kitchen. Standing up from my leaning position on the counter, I walked over and took the just-too-warm microwaveable dinners out, not really bothered by the heat. I set them on the little table by the window that Arthur had insisted we buy as, "Even if it is a flat, it's not a kitchen if it doesn't have a kitchen table!"

I sat down in my chair – the one closer to the refrigerator – and took the thin cover off of both of the plastic trays. Arthur and I had spent many evenings eating takeout or microwaveable dinners as he couldn't cook for crap and, really, I was too lazy to try. It had become almost routine that I would microwave the whatever-it-was (Arthur never would accept the possibility that those were _real_ potatoes or _real_ chicken) and he would get us drinks. Water, beer, wine, apple juice…mostly whatever we had on-hand or what we'd picked up at the grocery store that day.

Maybe I was a little crazy, but…this felt good. Organized. Usual. Sitting down at the table with probably-not-real potatoes and probably-not-chicken chicken. It was easier for me to handle emotionally than shoveling ice cream into my face on the couch, I thought.

I wondered what Peter had thought when Arthur came home, four nights ago. Arthur's fifteen-year-old brother didn't usually see eye-to-eye with him, but he knew him well. His whole family would have been able to see that something was wrong, if they even had to wonder in regards to his abrupt move. If they asked, he would probably lie. Because just like his whole face-covering thing, he thought that when he said he was 'okay', people believed him a hundred percent of the time.

When it came to himself, or emotional matters in general, actually, I had to admit…Arthur was a liar. Hiding his feelings, telling me the opposite of how he felt, and telling a white lie to get out of explaining why he was upset, Arthur would always just brush it off, at least around other people. Or me. _I'm okay._ He wasn't. But he'd say it anyway.

After I'd finished eating, and I threw Arthur's uneaten dinner away, I went to lie in bed again, trying to fall asleep. No position I found was comfortable, as usual. But when I finally gave up and rolled over onto Arthur's side of the bed…well, for some reason, it felt kinda better.

I realized at that point that I'd been making dinner – or, you know, microwaving dinner – for a guy who wasn't there and avoiding half of the bed even if no one else was in it. I sighed and turned over, my face in the pillow. Maybe I was going crazy. Like, literally. Certifiable and stuff.

While I was at the crazy, I muttered into the pillow. "Please, Arthur. I just…come on, babe… Come back. Please? I know you're worried and scared, but…" I rolled back over as I was losing oxygen and it was hard to talk while smothering. "I'm not…well, I'm forever. I know I'm kinda stupid, and I get all freaked out with scary movies but I make you watch 'em anyway, and I always forget to turn off the TV when we go out, but…I'll stick with you for the rest of my life.

"If you come back, then…" I paused, considering. "If you come back, then I'll let you cook. I'll help you, so that we can both try to learn. You won't have to eat…whatever's in those microwave things. Sound good?"

No one answered. Yet I spoke like Arthur was on the bed next to me, or standing at the foot of it with his arms crossed. Like he was still here.

If he _was_ here, and I _was_ telling him that to his face, Arthur would turn away, barely able to see me out of his peripheral vision. Since I was talking and pleading, not arguing with him, Arthur would ignore me icily, seemingly not hearing a word I said as he boiled. Arthur here, giving me the cold shoulder while I begged with him…that was much preferable to this. I just wished he was here, even if he was ignoring me. I'd understand. That would be okay.

Because later, when we got over this crap and settled down, everything would be great again. The next morning, Arthur would nag me about the sugary, chocolaty cereal I chose for breakfast and then roll his eyes and tell me later that what I was wearing "wasn't exactly appropriate for the weather today, you git." I missed his nagging. He'd always give me such a hard time about such little things. Well, little to me, anyway. I wished Arthur would nag me for staying up so long.

I almost wished I could feel the way I did when we fought – hoping we'd just be done with it and break up so we wouldn't yell and argue like that anymore. Because we never would break up because of a fight. Fights between us were longwinded and explosive, but they never split us apart. In fact, some of the time, we got closer because of it. It was a more personal, emotional and insecure thing that kept us apart. At least if we were fighting, I could wonder what it was like for it to be over. Because it used to be that I didn't know.

Wishing, though, seemed like a bigger and bigger waste of time the more time I spent doing it. _I wish this, I wish that_… That didn't really get me anywhere. But I just couldn't help it. Wishing like that, that Arthur was still nagging me and arguing with me and ignoring me, was like an alternate reality. Where he was _almost_ there. I was happier.

Still… What if this was it? Did Arthur even think about me? How often did I cross his mind, if at all? He had to think of me, right? He had to miss me…

But even if he didn't, well… I kept the door on the latch in case he ever came back. Obviously, so he could find his way to our room without killing himself, I left a light on in the hallway – thinking ahead! Since Arthur had left his key on the kitchen counter when he'd left, and I locked the door about a third of the time, I put it under the mat outside where I knew he'd think to look. I constantly kept the extra kettle he'd left here out on the stove so that I could start up his tea the way he'd tried to teach me how, and I'd just smile at him, because I'd probably be too exhausted and too thrilled to do anything else. With the familiar heat coming from the stove and everything in our apartment left nearly as it had been when Arthur walked out the door, if he ever came back, it'd be just like he had never left.

Mattie was extremely doubtful of that. He'd called me up a couple of days ago after hearing about Arthur's leaving from Francis and once I'd managed to explain the situation to him, he tried to gently explain that things might not work out. Francis himself called not too long afterward to say he hoped it would be okay, but that he didn't think Arthur would ever come home. Kiku and I talked for a while, too, and even though he never out and said it, I knew that he agreed with Francis and Mattie.

But everyone was wrong sometimes, right? I mean, for Pete's sake, people used to think the world was flat! Now it's just common knowledge that it's not, it was stupid to think that could be even a _little bit_ possible! If thousands of people centuries ago could think that the freaking _world_ was flat, then Mattie and Francis and Kiku could be way off, too.

I glanced at the bedroom door. I always left it half-open. I'll admit I wasn't being very…safe. I mean, leaving the front door open? I was practically _begging_ to be robbed. My whole life – minus Arthur – was in this apartment. Everything that I owned and that I cared about at all could be found here. But suddenly it didn't matter so much. Arthur had my heart and soul with him, and my favorite pajamas or the old cookie jar I'd gotten as a gag gift once definitely didn't have the same value. So in a way, everything I cared about was already gone.

Yawning for the first time in several hours, I starting feeling maybe…impatient? Because I mean, really. Arthur _had_ to be thinking about me, too, right? My thoughts were random and scrambled and I was a little irritated that I'd almost interrupted myself with that thought, but come _on_. All I could think about at _all_ was him – surely he missed me, too! He had to! He…he loved me…

I rolled out of bed and walked back into the kitchen, centering Arthur's spare kettle on the stovetop in hopeful preparation. I opened the front door and bent down to the welcome mat, lifting the corner so I could see the key hiding beneath, just to make sure. Then I made to close the door again and took a moment to decide whether to lock it or not. Tonight it would stay unlocked. I even stuck out the latch and decided to keep the door _very _open, like I'd done four times before. More risk, but Arthur would come inside faster if the door was already opened. And that's why I did it, of course.

As there was nothing left for me to do in my nightly Arthur routine, I went and got myself ready for bed, not changing out of my clothes. If Arthur came back that night, I didn't want to be in my pajama pants.

Even though the light was very bright (which was good, I guess, since the rest of the apartment got really dark with the rest of the lights off) I flipped the switch to the hall light and blinked, temporarily blinded. It would probably be enough light for Arthur to find the bedroom.

I sauntered back into the bedroom and fell on the bed, entangling myself in the sheets half-heartedly. My exhaustion had apparently reached a peak, as I didn't believe I had ever been that tired in my entire life, and I closed my eyes hopefully. If I slept, I'd be in better shape if and when Arthur came back. That way I could go and start his tea and look around a bit, realizing that it really was like nothing had changed.

Suddenly I ached for that. I missed Arthur so much that it hurt. I missed not having to pretend like everything was exactly the same, even without Arthur, because it was difficult and heartbreaking and honestly, sorta pathetic. I missed being able to roll over in bed and drape my arms around Arthur, pulling him close, because even if it seemed like it irritated him, he always curled up against my chest and held me back.

Somehow, with tears hanging onto my eyelashes and my arms clenched tightly around myself, I fell asleep. And I dreamed that Arthur was never gone.

* * *

"Bloody…!" I muttered, nearly tripping up a stair as I lugged my suitcase beside me. The bottom was a bit frayed, and kept catching on to irregularities in the concrete. Besides, it was heavy. I knew I hadn't managed to pack up _everything_ when I'd fled from the apartment, but I'd certainly gotten most of it. The weight of the stupid case could attest to that.

That definitely wasn't the only reason I regretted leaving, but it was a minor one. Alfred… I missed him. I'd gone home, so sure that this would be okay. Alfred missed America anyway, he would just go home and be much better off, and I'd stay with my family, get back on my feet, become surer about what I wanted and needed to do…

But nothing had been cleared up. Even when I went to the train station, fully intending to go to Scotland for some relaxation time, I couldn't make myself step on the train. The thought of being _so_ very far away from Alfred…

I'd made a mistake. I was in love with him. And…I could never leave. Alfred may have been mad and ridiculous and he obviously didn't have _any_ common sense, but…I honestly did believe him when he said he'd never leave. He was safe. He was a sure thing. And that was wonderful.

Finally I reached the apartment, and set down the case just beside the door – I'd come back and get it later, but first…I wanted to see Alfred.

Then I noticed the door – what the bloody hell was it doing open? My first thought was a break-in. Surely Alfred wouldn't have been as stupid as to leave the door wide open? So something must have happened. I took a step forward and felt something under my foot. Looking down, I saw a slight bulge in the rather old and dingy welcome mat. I picked it up curiously, initial panic momentarily forgotten, and found underneath…my key. The key to the apartment. Wonderingly, I picked it up. Not like I needed it anyw—Oh, right, I had to panic.

I stormed into the apartment, leaving the door hypocritically open behind me and found myself in a bright apartment. It was almost four in the morning – no lights should have been on. Alfred should have been asleep. I looked around and realized that just the hall light was on. That bugger really was bright…

I also noticed the old kettle Mum had given me before college out on the stove. I hadn't taken it out almost since we'd moved in, a few years ago. What was it doing out…?

Hearing a soft snore, I turned my attention to the bedroom door. It was half-open, and the room inside was dark. With the hall light, I could see perfectly and I walked right up to the door. Alfred was asleep on the bed, lying on his side on what was traditionally my half of the bed. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. It had only been just over a week since I'd last seen him, but…I really had missed him…more than I'd realized even at the train station, or on my way back.

I bit my lip. Part of me wanted to run to him and wake him and apologize and snog him until he believed and forgave me, but luckily, I was a bit more responsible than that.

My eyes lingering for a moment on Alfred's sleeping form, I turned and went back to the front door. I only took enough time to toss my suitcase into the kitchen and shut and lock the front door before flicking off the blinding hall light and sneaking back into the bedroom.

I suddenly didn't want to wake him – maybe I was a bit nervous as to how he'd react to seeing me again, maybe I was just tired too, or maybe I didn't want to ruin his calm and peaceful state. With a feather-light touch, I took his glasses off for him and laid them on the bedside table. Then I carefully crept up onto the bed, and, lying in his spot, I turned to face him. I didn't hold him as close as I would have liked to, but I put a hand carefully on top of one of his, and adjusted the blankets on top of us. I gently kissed his forehead and he wrinkled his nose a little in his sleep, which made me smile softly.

I'd apologize in the morning. But for now, it was just like I was never gone.

* * *

**A/N: So, yes, it's another songfic using The Script's songs. I just…I love them. Asldfkjaasdlfjadsf. :3 It's like they write songs for USUK sometimes, I swear. Anyway, this is ****_If You Ever Come Back_**** (thus the creative title), and it's one of my new favorites of theirs.**

**Sorry for the potential crappiness, I wrote this at two thirty a.m. As usual, I own nothing. I just ship USUK like no tomorrow. Oh, and I know I didn't label Alfred and Arthur's POVs, but I thought it was a little more…dramatic that I didn't. I dunno. Sorry for any confusion. ._. AND NO, I COULDN'T RESIST A HAPPY ENDING. This was supposed to be a SAD one-shot, but…I just couldn't do it… And sorry for the long A/N. **

**Reviews are much appreciated~**

**EDIT: Sorry about the notifications you might have gotten when I uploaded this. ._. The story format was all out of whack, so I took it down to edit it and re-uploaded it. **


End file.
